


The Clothes Make

by Senket



Series: The Clothes Make The Man [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothing, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-10
Updated: 2011-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:02:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senket/pseuds/Senket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has to be getting these wonderful clothes somewhere. Mummy is as scary as Mycroft. Part I of The Clothes Make The Man series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Clothes Make

It all started when he walked in to find a strange young woman crouching between Sherlock’s legs as the man stood marginally still, fingers twitching impatiently.

He’d never really thought about it. It was a ‘seeing’ versus ‘observing’ problem, no doubt, as Sherlock would’ve loved to tell him. He considered it rather reasonable. When coming in contact with the clean, lean lines of well-tailored jackets and perfectly-pressed shirts, it was hard for any warm-blooded creature to think about what it was seeing aside from fuzzy desire.

John would’ve been hard-pressed to deny that Sherlock’s clothes _fit_ him. Anyone would have. Dark suits, dark hair, pale skin, pale, sparking eyes. God, too beautiful to be anything but distracting. Too distracted thinking about the Byronic man to consider what Sherlock would’ve noticed out of the affair.

The clothes were too perfect to be store-bought, especially considering Sherlock’s oh-so-specific shape. Sherlock had engaged John to share a small flat at 221b Baker Street with him because he could not afford it alone despite the price having already been halved. Sherlock refused payment for the majority of his work, and bills often defaulted to John. He couldn’t possibly have been able to afford a tailor. It might’ve been Mycroft, paying for the suits to be made; no doubt the man could get the measurements for half of London without much trouble. John knew that supposition made no sense, as Sherlock was far too proud to accept such charities from his brother.

He might’ve eventually arrived at something like ‘fashion student,’ a girl looking for some practice and someone with a very specific look to work with, but that seemed just as unlikely. He was saved from the thought by noticing an older woman standing in the darkest part of the room, her eyes a sharp tang of green as they remained focused on Sherlock.

Her hair was dark and glossy as a raven’s wing, curling down her back. Her mouth was very red, traces of lipstick on the tip of her quellazaire, her skin almost translucently white. Despite a close-fitting black dress and dark stocking, she stood out effortlessly from the room. Her eyes flickered to John after a long moment; he felt a shock in his chest, a flash of white noise.

She smiled effortlessly, though it hardly changed the lines of her porcelain face; the expression was cool, considering though not emotionless. They stood staring at each other until the young lady at Sherlock’s feet stood up and moved back, Sherlock carelessly shucking off the trousers she had been pinning before pulling on his own pair.

No one seemed to take notice but John, who felt a humiliated blush creep up his throat when the older woman arched an eyebrow at him. Once the seamstress had gathered her things and left, the lady from the corner glided towards John, holding out her hand.

He blinked at her for several moments, frowning when he caught Sherlock rolling his eyes in an exasperated fashion.

“Cynthia Holmes,” she said eventually, seemingly amused. “John Watson, I presume?”

He made a prefect ‘o’ with his mouth, shaking her hand briefly. “Er. Yes. Ah. Of course. Lovely to meet you, ma’am.”

She smiled pristinely, and he didn’t miss the way she wiped her hand against her leg when she withdrew it, just as he hadn't missed the lilt in her accent that hinted at Slavic. “Of course. Do take good care of my son, Doctor Watson. He has a delicate temperament.” The odd quality of her increased smile said the ‘or else’ by itself, and he hurried out of the doorway when she glanced past him.

“She seems to like you,” Mycroft said the next time he kidnapped John, smiling benignly as he leaned against his umbrella.

“She seems likely to eat me if I upset Sherlock but not before, you mean?” He asked, wondering for the first time how the entire Holmes family seemed to be a little unhinged.

“You’re got it sussed,” Mycroft answered with a pleasant smile, and John wondered if they all knew how damned rude it was to dress a man like that and dare someone not to touch. 

He bought Sherlock a bulky cable jumper in powder blue out of pure rebellion, and regretted it immediately when Sherlock pulled it on, only for it to bring out the startling color of his eyes. Sherlock merely smirked at the dazed look of consternation on John’s face, proceeded to preen subtly as he bustled about, and accidentally caught the sleeve on fire later that day. 


End file.
